


Killcounts

by ialpiriel



Series: Do You Remember (Sole Survivor Mal) [1]
Category: Fallout (Video Games), Fallout 4
Genre: Cuddling & Snuggling, F/F, Fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-04
Updated: 2015-12-04
Packaged: 2018-05-04 22:50:45
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 726
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5351300
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ialpiriel/pseuds/ialpiriel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>f!ss and glory cuddle up after a long day</p>
            </blockquote>





	Killcounts

**Author's Note:**

> originally posted on the [fallout kinkmeme](http://falloutkinkmeme.livejournal.com/6099.html?thread=16185043#t16185043)

“Hostiles dead. Path clear.” Mal leans heavy on the support pillar, wedges her foot against the closest sarcophagus. Glory’s asleep in the back room, curled up tight with her face to the wall, her minigun tabled up on Tinker Tom’s desk.

“Good.” Desdemona replies, doesn’t look away from her map.

“You mind if I crash here tonight?”

“That’s what the beds in back are for.” Dez points at the back room.

“Thanks,” Mal says as she straightens up. There are five mattresses in the back room, more than enough to sleep alone, if she wanted.

Dez is busy doing whatever Dez does, so...

So she drops all her weight onto the mattress next to Glory.

Glory yelps, swings one arm out and lands a hefty whack on Mal’s spine. Mal doesn’t move, just laughs.

“Asshole,” Glory sighs, lets herself go limp.

“Oh, you love it,” Mal replies. She leans forward until her chin nearly rests on her knee, starts to unlace her boots.

“Fuck you,” Glory replies, wiggles up the mattress so Mal sits even with her stomach, curls her arm into Mal’s lap. Mal sucks her stomach in so Glory’s arm fits.

They’re both quiet while Mal finishes untying and kicking off her boots.

“What’s your new count?” Glory rasps out just above a whisper, as Mal lays down on the mattress too. They roll onto their sides to face each other, hands tucked in close to their chests. 

”Another fifteen?” Mal replies. “No, wait, seventeen. Two muties on the way back in, in front of Faneuil.”

“Huh, finally catching up.”

“No,” Mal gasps, affronted. “How many did you get?”

“Twenty-three. Eight ferals and the rest Gunners.”

“Damn,” Mal murmurs.

They’re both quiet and still for a moment. Glory hooks one leg over the back of Mal’s knees, tugs her in closer.

“What’s that get us up to?” Mal asks, eyes drifting closed. P.A.M. stops thumping around in the other room, Dez’s footsteps stop too. Glory cranes her neck, checks the main room. Hammerhead’s still on the radio, her eyes glazed over as she scratches away at her page of notes, even though the radio’s not running. Drummer Boy’s snore breaks the quiet, from where he’s asleep in the stairwell. Carrington’s answering snore comes from the bed closest to the chalkboards.

“Dunno,” Glory replies, lays her head back down on the straw pillow she stole back from Tom earlier. Lets her eyes drift closed.

“Got a list.” Mal digs into her shirt pocket, doesn’t bother to remove her combat armor’s chest piece.

“You’ve got a _list_?” Glory asks, has to fight down laughter.

“Yeah.” Mal squints at the ragged scrap of paper. “Notes say you’ve got ninety-seven and I’ve got, uh,” she squints harder, pauses, scrunches her nose. “I think that's one-oh-nine? So that’s hundred twenty six for me and…” she trails off. “Ninety and twenty, that’s one-ten, seven and three that’s ten, which is one-twenty even?”

“Only need four more to outpace you, next time. Someday that bat’s going to fail you.”

“Last I saw I could take three ferals out in one swing, miss Minigun-With-A-Spread-Of-One-Person.”

“Don’t need power armor to fight people from all the way down the street,” Glory replies, walks her fingers up the edge of Mal’s chestpiece toward her open collar. “Miss Tin Can.”

“Never had a feral bite me, either,” Mal replies, curls her palm around Glory’s bicep, approximately over the bite scar. “Or taken a bullet to the shoulder.” Her fingers up Glory’s arm, press against the armor plate epaulette. “Or a knife to the ribs.” Fingers skate down Glory’s armor to the patched-over slash in her coat.

“That’s because you take heads off with a baseball bat.” Glory lets her fingers wander across the side of Mal’s neck, lets her thumb slide across the plasma burn on her jaw, follows it up past her ear, into her hairline. “You’re getting a reputation out there, Fixer.”

“Long as I don’t have one for being Railroad, that’s fine.” She tilts her chin up, so their faces are parallel. She puckers her lips, and Glory rolls her eyes before leaning in for a quick peck. “You’re going to get a reputation for something else if you don’t watch it,” Glory murmurs into Mal’s chest piece.

“That’s alright,” Mal replies as she pulls Glory closer. “Perfectly fine by me.”


End file.
